Confirm at earliest if we are to continue policy of minimizing these disappearances. We can still find no common denominator in the type of person taken off. The only thing they all have in common is that they were, for a variety of reasons, somewhere in the areas in which these craft choose to descend.
The West Coast Examiner
Our observer at filling station Lost Pine reports that groups of people are driving south out of the city to the area where the latest UFOs are known to descend and take off. Last night they numbered over fifty thousand.
AIR FORCE 14 TO CENTER
In spite of Total Policy 19, rumors are out. We consider it advisable to cordon off the area, although this might precipitate extreme panic situation. But we see no alternative. The cult called Be Ready for the Day is already thousands strong and sweeping the city and environs. Suggest an announcement that the area is contaminated with a chance leak of radioactivity.
Mrs. Fortescue
That autumn he became conscious all at once of a lot of things he had never thought about before.
Himself, for a start …
His parents … whom he found he disliked, because they told lies. He discovered this when he tried to communicate to them something of his new state of mind and they pretended not to know what he meant.
His sister, who, far from being his friend and ally, “like two peas in a pod”—as people had been saying for years—seemed positively to hate him.
And Mrs. Fortescue.
Jane, seventeen, had left school and went out every night. Fred, sixteen, loutish schoolboy, lay in bed and listened for her to come home, kept company by her imaginary twin self, invented by him at the end of the summer. The tenderness of this lovely girl redeemed him from his shame, his squalor, his misery. Meanwhile, the parents ignorantly slept, not caring about the frightful battles their son was fighting with himself not six yards off. Sometimes Jane came home first; sometimes Mrs. Fortescue. Fred listened to her going up over his head, and thought how strange he had never thought about her before, knew nothing about her.
The Danderlea family lived in a small flat over the liquor shop that Mr. and Mrs. Danderlea had been managing for Sanko & Duke for twenty years. Above the shop, from where rose, day and night, a sickly reek of beer and spirits they could never escape from, was the kitchen and the lounge. This layer of the house (it had been one once) was felt as an insulating barrier against the smell, which nevertheless reached up into the bedrooms above. Two bedrooms—the mother and father in one; while for years brother and sister had shared a room, until recently Mr. Danderlea put up a partition making two tiny boxes, giving at least the illusion of privacy for the boy and the girl.
On the top floor, the two rooms were occupied by Mrs. Fortescue, and had been since before the Danderleas came. Ever since the boy could remember, grumbling went on that Mrs. Fortescue had the high part of the house where the liquor smell did not rise; though she, if remarks to this effect reached her, claimed that on hot nights she could not sleep for the smell. But on the whole relations were good. The Danderleas’ energies were claimed by buying and selling liquor, while Mrs. Fortescue went out a lot. Sometimes another old woman came to visit her, and an old man, small, shrunken, and polite, came to see her most evenings, very late indeed, often well after twelve.
Mrs. Fortescue seldom went out during the day, but left every evening at about six, wearing furs: a pale shaggy coat in winter, and in summer a stole over a costume. She always had a small hat on, with a veil that was drawn tight over her face and held with a bunch of flowers where the fur began. The furs changed often: Fred remembered half a dozen blond fur coats, and a good many little animals biting their tails or dangling bright bead eyes and empty paws. From behind the veil, the dark, made-up eyes of Mrs. Fortescue had glimmered at him for years; and her small old reddened mouth had smiled.
One evening he postponed his homework, and slipped out past the shop where his parents were both at work, and took a short walk that led him to Oxford Street. The exulting, fearful loneliness that surged through his blood with every heartbeat, making every stamp of shadow a reminder of death, each gleam of light a promise of his extraordinary future, drove him around and around the streets muttering to himself, brought tears to his eyes, or snatches of song to his lips which he had to suppress. For while he knew himself to be crazy, and supposed he must have been all his life (he could no longer remember himself before his autumn), this was a secret he intended to keep for himself and the tender creature who shared the stuffy box he spent his nights in. Turning a corner that probably (he would not have been able to say) he had already turned several times before that evening, he saw a woman walking ahead of him in a great fur coat that shone under the street lights, a small veiled hat, and tiny sharp feet that took tripping steps towards Soho. Recognising Mrs. Fortescue, a friend, he ran forward to greet her, relieved that this frightening trap of streets was to be shared. Seeing him, she first gave him a smile never offered him before by a woman; then looked prim and annoyed; then nodded at him briskly and said as she always did: “Well, Fred, and how are things with you?” He walked a few steps with her, said he had to do his homework, heard her old woman’s voice say: “That’s right, son, you must work, your mum and dad are right, a bright boy like you, it would be a shame to let it go to waste”—and watched her move on, across Oxford Street, into the narrow streets beyond.
He turned and saw Bill Bates coming towards him from the hardware shop, just closing. Bill was grinning, and he said: “What, wouldn’t she have you then?”
“It’s Mrs. Fortescue,” said Fred, entering a new world between one breath and the next, just because of the tone of Bill’s voice.
“She’s not a bad old tart,” said Bill. “Bet she wasn’t pleased to see you when she’s on the job.”
“Oh I don’t know,” said Fred, trying out a new man-of-the-world voice for the first time, “she lives over us, doesn’t she?” (Bill must know this, everyone must know it, he thought, feeling sick.) “I was just saying hullo, that’s all.” It came off, he saw, for now Bill nodded and said: “I’m off to the pictures, want to come?”
“Got to do homework,” said Fred, bitter.
“Then you’ve got to do it then, haven’t you,” said Bill reasonably, going on his way.
Fred went home in a seethe of shame. How could his parents share their house with an old tart (whore, prostitute—but these were the only words he knew); how could they treat her like an ordinary decent person, even better (he understood, listening to them in his mind’s ear, that their voices to her held something not far from respect)—how could they put up with it? Justice insisted that they had not chosen her as a tenant; she was the company’s tenant, but at least they should have told Sanko & Duke so that she could be evicted and …
Although it seemed as if his adventure through the streets had been as long as a night, he found when he got in that it wasn’t yet eight.
He went up to his box and set out his schoolbooks. Through the ceilingboard he could hear his sister moving. There being no door between the rooms, he went out to the landing, through his parents’ room (his sister had to creep past the sleeping pair when she came in late) and into hers. She stood in a black slip before the glass, making up her face. “Do you mind?” she said daintily. “Can’t you knock?” He muttered something, and felt a smile come on his face, aggressive and aggrieved, that seemed to switch on automatically these days if he saw his sister even at a distance. He sat on the edge of her bed. “Do you mind?” she said again, moving away from him some black underwear. She slipped over her still puppy-fatted white shoulders a new dressing-gown in cherry-red and buttoned it up primly before continuing to work lipstick onto her mouth.
“Where are you going?”
“To the pictures, if you’ve got no objection,” she clipped out, in this new, jaunty voice that she had acquired when she left school, and which, he knew, she used as a weapon against all men. But why against him? He sat, feeli
ng the ugly grin which was probably painted on his face, for he couldn’t remove it, and looked at the pretty girl with her new hairdo putting thick black rings around her eyes, and he thought of how they had been two peas in a pod. In the summer … yes, that is how it seemed to him now; through a years-long summer of visits to friends, the park, the zoo, the pictures, they had been friends, allies; then the dark came down suddenly and in the dark had been born this cool, flip girl who hated him.
“Who are you going with?”
“Jem Taylor, if you don’t have any objection,” she said.
“Why should I have any objection? I just asked.”
“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” she said, very pleased with herself because of her ease in this way of talking. He recognised his recent achievement in the exchange with Bill as the same step forward as she was making, with this tone, or style; and out of a quite uncustomary feeling of equality with her asked: “How is old Jem? I haven’t seen him lately.”
“Oh, Fred, I’m late.” This bad temper meant she had finished her face and wanted to put on her dress, which she would not do in front of him.
Silly cow, he thought, grinning and thinking of her alter ego, the girl of his nights; does she think I don’t know what she looks like in a slip, or nothing? Because of what went on behind the partition, in the dark, he banged his fist on it, laughing, and she whipped about and said: “Oh, Fred, you drive me crazy, you really do.” This being something from their brother-and-sister past, admitting intimacy, even the possibility of real equality, she checked herself, put on a sweet contained smile, and said: “If you don’t mind, Fred, I want to get dressed.”
He went out, remembering only as he got through the parents’ room and saw his mother’s feathered mules by the bed that he had wanted to talk about Mrs. Fortescue. He realised his absurdity, because of course his sister would pretend she didn’t understand what he meant…. His fixed smile of shame changed into one of savagery as he thought: Well, Jem, you’re not going to get anything out of her but do you mind and have you any objection and please yourself, I know that much about my sweet sister…. In his room he could not work, even after his sister had left, slamming three doors and making so much racket with her heels that the parents shouted at her from the shop. He was thinking of Mrs. Fortescue. But she was old. She had always been old, as long as he could remember. Sometimes other old women came up to see her in the afternoons; were they whores (tarts, prostitutes, bad women) too? And where did she, they, do it? And who was the smelly old man who came so late nearly every night?
He sat with the waves of liquor-smell from the ground floor arising past him, thinking of the sourish smell of the old man, and of the scented smell of the old women, feeling short-breathed because of the stuffy reek of this room and associating it (because of certain memories from his nights) with the reek from Mrs. Fortescue’s room which he could positively smell from where he sat, so strongly did he create it.
Bill must be wrong: she couldn’t possibly be on the game still, who would want an old thing like that?
The family had a meal every night when the shop closed. It was usually about ten-thirty when they sat down. Tonight there was some boiled bacon, and baked beans. Fred brought out casually: “I saw Mrs. Fortescue going off to work when I was out.” He waited the results of this cheek, this effrontery, watching his parents’ faces. They did not even exchange glances. His mother pushed tinted bronze hair back with a hand that had a stain of grease on it, and said: “Poor old girl, I expect she’s pleased about the Act, when you get down to it, in the winter it must have been bad sometimes.” The words the Act hit Fred’s outraged sense of propriety anew; he had to work them out, thinking that his parents did not even apologise for the years of corruption. Now his father said—his face was inflamed, he must have been taking nips from the glass under the counter—“Once or twice, when I saw her on Frith Street before the Act I felt sorry for her. But I suppose she got used to it.”
“It must be nicer this way,” said Mrs. Danderlea, pushing the crusting remains of the baked beans towards her husband.
He scooped them out of the dish with the edge of his fried bread, and she said: “What’s wrong with the spoon?”
“What’s wrong with the bread?” he returned, with an unconvincing whisky glare, which she ignored.
“Where’s her place, then?” asked Fred, casual, having worked out that she must have one.
“Over that new club in Panton Street. The rent’s gone up again, so Mr. Spencer told me, and there’s the telephone she needs now—well, I don’t know how much you can believe of what he says, but he’s said often enough that without him helping her out she’d do better at almost anything else.”
“Not a word he says,” said Mr. Danderlea, pushing out his dome of a stomach as he sat back, replete. “He told me he was doorman for the Greystock Hotel in Knightsbridge—well, it turns out all this time he’s been doorman for that strip-tease joint along the street from her new place, and that’s where he’s been for years, because it was a night-club before it was striptease.”
“Well there’s no point in that, is there?” said Mrs. Danderlea, pouring second cups. “I mean, why tell fibs about it, I mean everyone knows, don’t they?”
Fred again pushed down protest: that yes, Mr. Spencer (Mrs. Fortescue’s “regular,” but he had never understood what they had meant by the ugly word before) was right to lie; he wished his parents would lie even now; anything rather than this casual back-and-forth chat about this horror, years-old, and right over their heads, part of their lives.
He ducked down his face and shovelled beans into it fast, knowing it was scarlet, and wanting a reason for it.
“You’ll get heart-burn, gobbling like that,” said his mother, as he had expected.
“I’ve got to finish my homework,” he said, and bolted, shaking his head at the cup of tea she was pushing over at him.
He sat in his room until his parents went to bed, marking off the routine of the house from his new knowledge. After an expected interval Mrs. Fortescue came in; he could hear her moving about, taking her time about everything. Water ran, for a long time. He now understood that this sound, water running into and then out of a basin, was something he had heard at this hour all his life. He sat listening with the ashamed, fixed grin on his face. Then his sister came in; he could hear her sharp sigh of relief as she flumped on the bed and bent over to take off her shoes. He nearly called out: “Goodnight, Jane,” but thought better of it. Yet all through the summer they had whispered and giggled through the partition.
Mr. Spencer, Mrs. Fortescue’s regular, came up the stairs. He heard their voices together; listened to them as he undressed and went to bed; as he lay wakeful; as he at last went off to sleep.
Next evening he waited until Mrs. Fortescue went out, and followed her, careful she didn’t see him. She walked fast and efficient, like a woman on her way to the office. Why then the fur coat, the veil, the makeup? Of course, it was habit, because of all the years on the pavement; for it was a sure thing she didn’t wear that outfit to receive customers in her place. But it turned out that he was wrong. Along the last hundred yards before her door, she slowed her pace, took a couple of quick glances left and right for the police, then looked at a large elderly man coming towards her. This man swung around, joined her, and they went side by side into her doorway, the whole operation so quick, so smooth, that even if there had been a policeman all he could have seen was a woman meeting someone she had expected to meet.
Fred then went home. Jane had dressed for her evening. He followed her too. She walked fast, not looking at people, her smart new coat flaring jade, emerald, dark green, as she moved through varying depths of light, her black puffy hair gleaming. She went into the underground. He followed her down the escalators, and onto the platform, at not much more than arm’s distance, but quite safe because of her self-absorption. She stood on the edge of the platform, staring across the rails at a big advert
isement. It was a very large, dark brown, gleaming revolver holster, with a revolver in it, attached to a belt for bullets; but instead of bullets each loop had a lipstick, in all the pink-orange-scarlet-crimson shades it was possible to imagine lipstick in. Fred stood just behind his sister, and examined her sharp little face examining the advertisement and choosing which lipstick she would buy. She smiled—nothing like the appealing shamefaced smile that was stuck, for ever, it seemed, on Fred’s face, but a calm, triumphant smile. The train came streaming in, obscuring the advertisement. The doors slid open, receiving his sister, who did not look around. He stood close against the window, looking at her calm little face, willing her to look at him. But the train rushed her off again, and she would never know he had been there.
He went home, the ferment of his craziness breaking through his lips in an incredulous raw mutter: a revolver, a bloody revolver…. His parents were at supper, taking in food, swilling in tea, like pigs, pigs, pigs, he thought, shovelling down his own supper to be rid of it. Then he said: “I left a book in the shop, Dad, I want to get it,” and went down dark stairs through the sickly rising fumes. In a drawer under the till was a revolver which had been there for years, against the day when burglars would break in and Mr. (or Mrs.) Danderlea would frighten them off with it. Many of Fred’s dreams had been spun around that weapon. But it was broken somewhere in its black-gleaming interior. He carefully hid it under his sweater, and went up, to knock on his parents’ door. They were already in bed, a large double bed at which, because of this hideous world he was now a citizen of, he was afraid to look. Two old people, with sagging faces and bulging mottled fleshy shoulders lay side by side, looking at him. “I want to leave something for Jane,” he said, turning his gaze away from them. He laid the revolver on Jane’s pillow, arranging half a dozen lipsticks of various colours as if they were bullets coming out of it.